What Is Missing
by Ink On Paper
Summary: Ziva is reunited with an old friend and Tony realizes what his partner is missing. . . . TIVA
1. What Is Missing

**A/N: Well, one hundred thousand thank yous to everyone who has reviewed (not just What Is Missing, but everything) You are all wonderful and beautiful and superly appreciated. I have been trying (being the keyword here) to figure out how to reply to reviews and I think I've nearly mastered it, but if you review and do not receive a response, well, clearly the kinks are still being worked out. . . . Anyway, I have exams next week and this sucks majorly. However, this means I get out of school before noon so I should have to time to write! (AND study :^)) So, without further ado (which is such a cool word) . . . . **

**DISCLAIMER: I own a cat, a toothbrush, and this laptop. That is all. **

**Also, I do not speak Hebrew. At all. I used Google and I hope it is right -feel free to correct any glaring errors. I sincerly hope this isn't totally OOC.**

What Is Missing

"Mr. DiNozzo, your order is ready."

The sound of two chairs scrapping back softly echoed out of the far corner. "I got it, Ziva," Tony said, flashing a quick grin, before disappearing to retrieve their coffees. Ziva sighed, sinking back into her chair, gazing indifferently out the window in front of her. It was a grey January in D.C., the snow taking a short hiatus, though the ice remaining firmly frozen where it had been since November. She tapped her fingers absently against the tabletop.

"Excuse me?" an uncertain voice sounded from behind her. She turned around, meeting the imploring gaze of a woman close to her own age, the stranger's lips turned up in a warm yet cautious smile.

Ziva cocked her head slightly to the left, acknowledging her with a, "Yes?"

"Ziva David?"

Ziva blinked, regarding stranger with the scrutiny of a highly trained federal agent. She was a few inches taller than Ziva herself, bright chocolate eyes set in a round olive toned face framed by a silky black bob. She was dressed plainly, a brown woolen coat and jeans, a bright red scarf draped casually over her shoulders –no concealed weapons Ziva surmised. She scanned through her mental catalog of faces, delving far back in time in an attempt to place the face. And then recognition dawned and she found herself asking in disbelief, "Sonel?"

The other woman radiated joy and Ziva found herself standing, wrapped tightly in a hug, returning it just as fiercely, the sudden tears stinging her eyes surprising her. "_Mah shlom'chen_?" Sonel whispered, her own voice watery. Ziva smiled, "I am good, I am good. Oh, Sonel, it is so good to see you!"

Sonel loosened her grip, holding Ziva back at arms' length, inspecting her critically. "You are too thin, Ziva David," she scolded teasingly.

Ziva kept her composure, her smile still genuinely in place, explaining vaguely, "I was ill a while ago . . . . Never mind me, how are you? How are Mikel and Simcha? What are you doing here?"

Sonel laughed, the sound triggering the memories of years past, and Ziva found herself lost in nostalgia momentarily. "I am wonderful. Mikel is loving his new job and Simcha is adjusting to a new school –he is nine now, can you believe it?"

"Not nine! That is too old! What happened to the sweet little baby?"

"I have been asking myself the same question!"

Realizing that they were still standing, Ziva motioned to the vacant chair across from her and she and Sonel sat down quickly, unwilling to waste precious time together.

Sonel leaned forward, conspiratorial, "Where have you been? Last I heard from you was ten years ago?"

Ziva bit her lip, but ultimately decided to forgo elusion and divulge as much as she felt she was allowed –which, coincidently, was very little. "I transferred from the IDF over to Mossad and, well, you know how that goes." In truth, she was aware Sonel knew little in regards to both agencies, however Sorel's uncle had been Mossad, so the general idea was there. "And now I am here."

Sonel grinned, shaking her head, "You were always the fighter, Ziva. Are you working now?"

"No –yes, but no. I _am_ on duty, but I am no longer an officer. . . ." she was regretting sharing the Mossad aspect that had been her life for a decade. But Sonel was still attuned to her friend, taking Ziva's discomfort as a cue to not question her past occupation further. "I am a NCIS agent now," Ziva concluded, enforcing this fact with a nod.

"N-C-I-S?"

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service. . . . Now: What about you? What have I missed?"

Sonel grinned mischievously, letting Ziva squirm under the curiosity of withheld information for a few beats, continuing her story, "Before we moved to San Francisco, I had another son, Abraham. He's five now. And then Shira is twenty-one months-"

"Oh, Sonel! Three? Three children? And a little girl, you got your little girl –You better have pictures!" Ziva exclaimed after a delighted gasp. Sonel was laughing now, digging in her purse, withdrawing her wallet, one of the designer pieces Jenny had once been fond of. Flipping open the leather fold and sliding out several small pictures which she passed over reverently. Ziva eagerly gazed down at the photos fanned out poker style in her hands.

The dark-haired little boy was crouching on one knee, holding a black and white soccer ball against his side. The grass beneath him was green and his jersey was an azure blue and his smile was white and radiant. The last time she had laid eyes on the child was when she held him, a three week old infant, in her arms under the intense glare of an Israeli sun. Simcha had grown to be a lovely young man, a perfect blend of his mother and father. . . .

The next photograph was of another boy, barely out of his toddling years, a giddy smile plastered across his face. The sun glinted of the edge of the camera lens, making a bright starburst in the corner. However, the shiny childlike awe was clearly surrounding Abraham as he held the small, silver fish out proudly, the moment preserved forever.

The last picture was of a chubby baby girl, ebony curls piled high on her head, secured neatly with a red ribbon. She was clutching a white stuffed dog, leaning up against a pillow, a pale yellow blanket wrapped around her little body. Her dark eyes were happy and her mouth was a perfect 'o' in the fit of giggles the photographer had caught her in. She was the spinning image of Sonel.

"Oh, Sonel, they are beautiful!"

"Who are beautiful, Zee-vah?" Tony asked curiously, returning with a tray of coffees. Ziva turned to look at her companion, almost having forgotten he was there with her, and rose from her seat, Sonel mirroring her action, as she gestured to the woman that had materialized while Tony had been away.

"Tony, this is Sonel Yosef, an old friend from Tel Aviv. Sonel, this is Tony DiNozzo, my partner at NCIS." Tony extended his hand, flashing Sonel his patent grin, which Sonel reciprocated.

"_Neim me'od_," he said intelligibly, his pronunciation flawless, eliciting appreciatively raised eyebrows from Sonel and a reproachful "behave" from Ziva. Tony's grin broadened as he said, "I'll leave you ladies to catch up –I have them making Gibbs' another coffee because they put cream in it and you know how Gibbs is about his coffee."

Sonel, though, happened to glance down at her watch, her face slipping slightly into an almost pout. "Ziva, I have to go run my carpool. . . .Listen," she said, rummaging again in her bag, procuring a pen and edge of scrap paper, "here is my number. You call that, okay? And then you come to my house and I make you dinner. You can see Mikel and Simcha, and meet Abraham and Shira?"

Ziva smiled, nodding in agreement. "I would like that. I would like that a lot."

* * *

"So, how long had it been?"

Ziva blew the steam curling off her latte, cooling the hot liquid and taking a tentative sip. "How long since what?"

Tony fixed her with a look of disbelief before sighing exasperatedly, "Since you'd seen Sonel!"

"Oh! . . . Ten years, I think. . . . She was my best friend when my family lived in Ramat Aviv. We would play dolls in her family's garden –only Sonel could coax me into Barbies," and suddenly Ziva was speaking without censor, sharing a piece of her mysterious past with an extremely surprised Tony. "Sonel was never rough, never loud. We were night and light, the tomboy and the princess. She wanted a big family, a husband and children and white picket fence, yes?"

Tony nodded and she continued, "I am glad she got that chance. You know, to marry the love of her life and be happy. . . . She deserved it so much." But there was something in her voice, not envy, more of an admiration, and a longing that lurked beneath that.

"Zee," he said, peering at her over the edge of his cup, "you deserve that too, you know." He'll never understand what made him say those words, only that at that moment it seemed so very dire for her to comprehend that. For her to realize that she had that potential too.

But Ziva was shaking her head, a sad smile toying at her lips. "I am afraid I can never have that, Tony."

"Hey now," he admonished lightly, silently horrified at her mind set.

"I have come to terms with it." As if that justified anything. He had quickly drawn several parallels between the two long lost friends: Sonel had a house, a husband that loved her with happy, laughing children that were her very own. She had place in a world that was simple and filled with life. . . . And Ziva had what? An empty apartment and scars from men that had lied to her and abused her and filled her ears with false promises then left her die, all alone. Her life was marked by trials and misfortunes, she saw death everyday . . . . She was a sojourner, a nomad, alienated and exiled, homeless and without a family. . . . But that wasn't entirely true, he amended, nearly slapping himself for his stupidity. Ziva did have a home –her home was here, with him and their team. NCIS was her family, he was her family. And she was his. And yes, they had moments when things went misunderstood and people got mad as feelings got hurt, but they always rose above whatever came between them. Ziva David had been a foreigner, an outcast and now she was wanted and loved, appreciated and safe. She could have whatever she wanted, nothing was out of reach for this strong, determined woman.

All that she needed now was to comprehend.

And at that very moment, Tony resolved to do just that. "Hey, Ziva?"

She looked over to him, lowering her latte. "Yes?"

"_Ani ohevet otcha_."

* * *

Mah shlom'chen

Neim Me'od : It's a pleasure to meet you.

Ani ohevet otcha. : I love you.


	2. What Is Found

**A/N: Well, due to the outstanding number of requests (and yes, I consider five outstanding) I have decided to continue What Is Missing. I'm not entirely sure if this is as good as the first chapter apparently was (can I ever thank you people enough?) so if you want to review, I would sincerly appreciate it (though feel free to not review -I hate it sometimes when authors beg). Anyway, there will be at least one more chapter in addition to this one -maybe more, you guys get to decide, okay? Anyway, without further ado . . . . Kit**

**DISCLAIMER: Still waiting . . . .**

**What Is Found**

"Ani ochevet otcha."

He said it so casually, as if announcing the weather forecast, as if he'd professed the phrase so many times before, the words sliding off his lips effortlessly, the language barrier unapparent for his enunciation was flawless. And she was stunned into silence, her immediate instinct to deflect the sentiment, but when he had looked at her . . . . All thought processes ceased.

So Ziva sat there mutely, unmoving, completely and utterly frozen. And then Tony's cell phone came alive, chirping brightly from his coat pocket. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, rummaging around, making Ziva wonder, in the far recess of her mind that was still working properly, what he had concealed in there. With a flourish, he withdrew the convulsing device, flipping it open and answering cheerily, "DiNozzo."

Ziva could make out the distinct tone of her boss' irritated voice booming over the line, demanding to know what on earth was delaying them. Tony, however, was unfazed, responding, "Well, boss, we're waiting on your refill –they put cream in it . . . . I know, I know . . . . Okay. Got it. Forgo the coffee –Oh, right. Bring the coffee," followed by an audible click and Tony's belated, "Bye."

Ziva was already shrugging on her coat, finishing her latte, making extra care to tuck Sonel's number into her trouser pocket. "That was Gibbs," Tony added unnecessarily.

"What do we have?"

"Dead petty officer. Anacostia."

Ziva nodded once, a quick, jerky movement and Tony tossed a handful of ones onto the table, and the pair departed, leaving empty mugs and crumpled napkins and echoes of Hebrew in their wake.

Black and white in its simplicity, the case was open and shut, more paperwork than evidence, fingerprints, a murder weapon, and damning evidence successfully convicting the victim's estranged wife. Apparently, their three year marriage was rocky at best, pockmarked with infidelity and shallowly buried secrets. There was no espionage, no treason, no international crises . . . . The stack of reports being the more exciting aspect of the entire workload. The actual time between the initial crime scene processing and the tearful confession in interrogation really only accounted for seven hours (after the condemning DNA and fingerprint results were in, the wife's guilty plead to the cold deed was an added bonus). Gibbs had even given his agents a reprieve, allowing them an eight hour period off duty to rest and, in Ziva's case, contact Sonel. The following morning and into the late afternoon was hailed by several forests' worth of paper and the deliberate avoidance of the subject 'coffee.'

Tony had not broached the matter of his admission the day before and Ziva was beginning to wonder if she had dreamed it all. . . . This thought, that it was an imaginary figment, however entertaining, was dismissed because she knew, she swore to herself, that she had heard those words leave his tongue –was still hearing them echo sweetly in her scattered mind.

As she gathered her coat draped over her chair and assimilated her necessary things, having safely filed away her own stack of reports in the cabinet behind her, she nodded in acknowledgment to McGee and exchanged an unspoken 'good night' with Tony.

_Ani ochevet otcha. . . . _

* * *

Ziva wrapped her coat tighter around her body, her breath pluming in the chilled air as she sighed, stealing herself before pressing her gloved finger down on the glowing button. She looked around, absorbing her surroundings, as the bells chimed brightly on the other side of the door. The neighborhood was small and quiet, pleasant in the simplicity. As the headlights of her car illuminated the lawn of the Yosef residence, she noticed the evidence of three small children in the yard. A bicycle turned on its side by the driveway, a swing hanging from a thick branch in a long dormant tree. Even as she made her way to the front stoop, Ziva had to navigate around a jump rope and a soccer ball abandoned near the door.

"Shalom, my friend," Sonel greeted her, drawing her into the warm golden light of the house before embracing her tightly.

"Shalom, Sonel," Ziva replied.

"Ziva David!"

Sonel relinquished her hold over Ziva and a tall, dark haired man reclaimed her, kissing both sides of her face in welcome. "Mikel," Sonel scolded, grinning as her husband caused her friend to blush bashfully.

"It is good to see you, Mikel," Ziva laughed, stepping back beside Sonel. "You look good."

"As do you – I swear, you and Sonel are making me look like an old man."

Sonel smirked playfully: "You are an old man." And as Mikel opened his mouth to retaliate, he was interrupted by thunderous pounding overhead.

"Is she here?" came a little voice from the top of the stairs and Ziva looked up to see two small boys peering over the railing.

Sonel nodded, calling, "Yes, she is here. Now come downstairs and say 'hi' to your Aunt Ziva-" at Aunt Ziva, Ziva slid a sideways glance at her friend, raising her eyebrows questioningly. Sonel winked.

Simcha was the first to make it to the bottom of the stairs, the nine-year-old heedless to his mother's chastising warning of 'be careful.' He came to a screeching halt in front of Ziva, and reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes, declared, "You are the woman from the picture." Uncertain as to what picture the child was referencing, Ziva smiled and held out her hand, "It is nice to see you again Simcha."

Simcha nodded, shaking her hand firmly, "I'm sorry but I don't really remember you too good," a statement which made Ziva laugh and immediately think of Rule #4: Never apologize –reflexes were reflexes, they weren't partial to nine-year-olds or silver haired marines.

Abraham had now made his appearance, cautiously peering at Ziva from behind the safety of his brother's back. Ziva smiled, squatting down to the five-year-old's level. "Shalom, Abraham," she said gently, pleased when the youngest boy stepped out around his brother, coming to stand before Ziva, who was directly at his eye level, hand extended idly in wait of a shake. "Abe, don't be shy," Mikel coaxed from the side and Ziva half expected the child to burst into tears. Instead, little Abraham, with his missing front teeth, forwent the handshake, wrapping his arms around Ziva's neck in a hug. Laughing, Ziva hugged the boy back, telling him that it was a pleasure to meet him.

"Did you boys clean up the playroom?" Sonel prompted her sons as something in the kitchen dinged. Simcha grinned broadly and grabbed his brother's shoulder, prodding him back upstairs to straighten their toys before dinner. Sonel gestured to the kitchen, "This way, my dear." And Ziva followed her into the warm kitchen, the delectable aroma of good food assaulting her senses.

"Oh, Sonel, this smells delightful!"

"I hope you like Cholont," Sonel said, removing rolls from the oven.

Ziva rolled her eyes good naturedly, "You know it is one of my favorites."  
"Eeei!" came an elated squeal and slight weight against Ziva's knee. She looked down and was met with the soft, chocolate gaze of a toddler that was using her as a support. Shira raised her arms out to Ziva, her eyes wide and hopeful as Ziva carefully bent down to scoop her up.

Sonel smiled from the stove, "I see you've met my princess."

"She is gorgeous," Ziva said, allowing Shira to twist her necklace chain and palm the Star of David charm with her pudgy toddler fingers. The little girl leaned back, looking directly into Ziva's eyes, as if sizing her up. Then, with the finality only a baby possesses, she deemed Ziva worthy, tucking her curly head under Ziva's chin, resting her face against Ziva's breastbone. Sonel watched, extremely impressed, from where she stood ladling out the stew. "She likes you," she acknowledged, satisfied, enforcing this with a firm nod. "Babies are a good judge of character."

Ziva smiled, concealing her uncertainty, and shifted her weight onto her right leg, moving Shira to her opposite hip. She bounced the baby gently, subconsciously, talking idly with Sonel, her insistence of helping with dinner being waved off with her friend's dismissive hand.

The meal was delicious, the Cholont as mouthwatering as its aroma. Mikel and Abraham had set the table in the dining room, the whole affair seeming too lavish on Ziva's account. But Sonel was resolute in her insisting that Ziva was a guest and deserved no less.

The conversation at the dinner table was lovely, a commentary of last night's soccer scrimmage courtesy of Simcha –who had scored the winning goal, thank you very much – and a recounting of Abraham's day at school, told from the innocently analytical prospective of an intelligent kindergartener. Mikel and Ziva exchanged stories about coworkers and the odd logics behind some aspects of human behavior -Mikel was a doctor at the local hospital and had seen a woman with a mousetrap stuck to her tongue earlier in the day. "What possessed her to put the contraption in her mouth, I still don't know," he'd said, animatedly.

Throughout the dinner, the house rang with laughter at young boys' antics and the punctuated babble of an excited Shira filled the room. Simcha was determined to show Ziva his proudest achievement, and eventually returned to the dining room with last year's soccer trophy, the plate bearing "Simcha Yosef: MVP," the award held with great reverence -Ziva was even permitted to touch the plastic gold. Abraham eagerly recited his alphabet, only mixing up his 'm' and 'n' and leaving out his 'l.' He also gave a demonstration of his numerical knowledge, counting to sixty though skipping his forties and half of his fifties.

"Okay now," Sonel said, returning from loading the dishes into the washer, "time for your showers." This announcement was met with a chorus of groans as the two boys, one on either side of Ziva, were told that the night's festivities were reaching a close. Mikel appeared at Ziva's shoulder, hoisting Shira off Ziva's lap, swinging the sleepy toddler onto his back, her little hands fisting in her father's hair.

"Laila tov," Ziva murmured, stroking Shira's face, lightly slapping Mikel's cheek as well. "Shalom, Mikel."

"Shalom, Ziva David. You take care, you understand?"

"I understand-"

"And you are always welcome here, okay?"

"Toda."

Mikel smiled once more in parting, herding his children upstairs to awaiting showers and warm beds. "Alright, there gone. Time for girl talk, yes?" Sonel asked, touching Ziva lightly on her arm, indicating the family room with her chin as Ziva permitted herself to be steered into the adjacent room.

* * *

"Alright then," Sonel sighed, passing Ziva a glass off amber liquid, and settling down onto the couch across from her childhood friend, now practically a stranger, tucked comfortably into the oversized armchair. "We now have time to talk . . . . So, tell me about your American partner."

"Tony?"

"Yes!" Sonel cried, exasperated, as if it was the most obvious topic in the world.

Ziva half-shrugged her shoulder, absently sipping her wine. "Tony is . . . . Tony is Tony," she said simply, her hand waving vaguely, which only succeeded in furthering Sonel's interest.

"What kind of answer is that?" Sonel pouted, her insatiable thirst for good gossip discontented.

Ziva smiled conspiratorially, "It is an, ah, _complicated_ relationship."

"Complicated how?"

"Sonel, you are fishing," Ziva accused, suppressing a laugh.

Sonel narrowed her eyes, teasingly quipping, "And _you_ are deflecting."

Ziva sighed, suddenly exhausted. "We have had some ups and downs recently . . . . Trust issues. It has taken its toll on both of us –and do not think I am blind to that glint in your ey. I know what you are thinking and I swear Tony and I are only partners, possibly friends."

Sonel studied Ziva, noticing the way she flexed her fingers, twitched her foot every few minutes, shifting positions in her seat. The other woman was restless, she had been all evening, and Sonel was rapidly becoming worried. . . . This wasn't the little girl she had known once upon a time, a time when two little girls crouched in Sonel's closet, engrossed in a game of hide and seek, where Ziva would remain statue like for hours, unmoving, always forcing the older brothers to surrender and admit defeat in their fruitless searching. This wasn't the fearless, self-assured fighter she had known, the same woman who had made Shmuel Rubinstein cry when she punched him in the second grade. No, the woman before her was more than what Sonel had known, and, simultaneously, less. The woman that sat before her was smoother around the edges, like that of a polished stone, more complacent. Ten years ago Ziva had been distant, gingerly cradling Simcha as if afraid to break him, or infect him in some way. She had been on hyper-alert, her dark eyes shifting warily, and Sonel had noticed the gun resting at her hip in addition to the one holstered at her ankle. But this Ziva, this new Ziva, was tamer, softer. And while Sonel was aware that a lot could happen in a decade, she was terrified at the drastic change in her friend.

"Ziva? Are you okay?"

"Yes. . . ."

"You mentioned earlier that you had been ill," Sonel recalled, grasping that fact and using it to pry open Ziva's thoughts like a crowbar.

Ziva sighed, running a hand through her hair, waging a silent war against herself. What was she to say? There were terrible truths that were waiting patiently at the tip of her tongue to slide off in uncensor and pollute the safe, happy place of Sonel's home, where her children slept upstairs. She refused, silently, devoutly, to not taint the lovely life Sonel had created within the walls around her. So she opted for the lighter aspect of the past reality, eradicating the darker exposition and illuminating the happier ending: "I was in a . . . . difficult position-"

A cool revelation was creeping into Sonel's mind as pieces fell into place.

"Tony risked his life to save me when he should have hated me. . . . I do not know what to think," Ziva explained placidly, spreading her hands over her lap. "He told me he loved me," she whispered softly.

"When?" Sonel asked, suddenly excited.

"Yesterday, after you left the coffee shop. He said it in Hebrew."

"And what did you say?"

Ziva bent her head, peering at her friend from under the fringe of her lashes. In a very minute voice, she said, "I didn't say anything. His phone rang and we went back to work."

"Why not say anything?" Sonel cried in astonishment. "What were you thinking?"

Ziva looked up sharply at Sonel's outburst. "How was I supposed to know he was serious?"

"The man said he loved you! In Hebrew!"

Ziva snorted, "You obviously do not know DiNozzo."

"I must know him better than you;" Sonel said gently, "He was serious, Ziva, and you know it."

"Fine. Maybe he was serious," she said, relenting. "But he could have meant it in a totally platonic way-"

Sonel shook her head, "No. Definitely not."

Ziva's lips twitched upward slightly, "And how do you _know_."

And Sonel smiled wisely, leaning forward, murmuring softly, "Because I saw the way he looked at you. Now what are you so afraid of?"

Ziva closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, steadying herself and her pounding heart. What was she afraid of? The lies, the fatal deceit, the skewered and warped honesty that dominated her past. She had been used and abandoned when no longer efficient, coming within a breadth of her demise after staring death in the face for months. She was afraid of the disloyalty, the questioning of her own allegiance. She was tired and marked with bruises that lingered long after they faded from her skin. She was a broken soldier that had been glued and taped and stapled back together so many times that there was nothing left to shatter, nothing left to crack, no one left to pick up her pieces. . . . But that wasn't entirely true, she amended, a feeling of shame flashing through her body. Once again, she was doubting Tony, questioning the one constant factor in the tangled equation that had become her life. Because Tony was Tony, he was goofy and soft and solid rock. He was honest, often skirting around blatant truths, twisting things to lessen the hurt, to numb the sting that the truth usually brings. Yes, Eli and Ari and Michael were deceitful, scheming terrible against unsuspecting people, sending faux love to Ziva and filling her head with nonsense, brainwashing her. But Tony. . . . Tony never doubted her, or at least not very long. He ventured to hell and back just to bring her spirit rest, and, consequently, bringing her back instead. He fought off death, both his and hers, all because of her.

"Well?" Sonel demanded.

"At tzodeket. Toda."

"Ani yoda'at. Ein be'ad ma."

* * *

**Ani ochevet otcha : I love you.**

**Shalom : "Peace;" farewell;greeting**

**Laila tov : Goodnight**

**At tzodeket : You are right**

**Toda : Thank you**

**Ani yoda'at : I know.**

**Ein be'ad ma : You are welcome**


	3. What Is Here

**A/N: Well after the phone bill mishap, I can now update :^) so here is Chapter Three, more from Tony's POV (thank you to ncischick09) There will be a short epilogue in addition to this. I liked this one personally, though it doesn't have much dialogue. But that's okay! Here goes it, Kit. **

**DISCLAIMER: The only thing I own is nothing. Though, aren't we proud that I'm remembering to put these more often?**

What Is Here

Three words, granted more complex than they would have been had he said it in English, but three simple little words all the same. Ani ochevet otcha. I love you. Easy, unpretentious, straightforward.

But what the heck was he thinking? Had he taken temporary leave of his senses? He told her he loved her. _But why_? he mused much later on, sitting alone at his desk in the semi-dark bullpen, McGee having wandered down to Abby's basement domain an hour ago and Gibbs . . . . Well, he wasn't entirely for certain where his silver-haired boss had vanished too –but the man's coat was still draped limp over his chair and his car keys were still waiting idle on his desktop (though the computer monitor was long cold). Ziva had departed sometime around 1900, escaping without a spoken word to him.

_Ani ochevet otcha._

The moment the words had left his lips he had suddenly regretted them. Four years ago, she would have castrated him, but now, now she just went blank. She had been open, finally letting him into the carefully guarded fortress she'd erected around herself, inviting him to share in her reminiscing. It was like looking into a window, seeing two little girls playing Barbies, giggling and imagining their happily ever afters. But then he went and opened his big mouth, because she was oh so painfully wrong as to what she actually deserved, and the curtain was abruptly pulled closed again.

She said nothing, not a single sound leaving her lips, though her dark eyes spoke volumes as they always did. And this time he listened, he really truly did, but despite his newly obtained knowledge of the Hebrew language, he still couldn't decipher what she was trying to convey. And then his phone rang because Gibbs' timing was impeccable and fate happened to hate him and as she was about to speak but duty beckoned, her words remaining unspoken.

The odd thing was, and by odd, it was odder than their usual odd, their dynamic was unaffected by his confession. She still teased him, goading him, taunting him with sultry quips and smarting satire, as if nothing had transpired. He considered that perhaps he had dreamt it all . . . .

They both had issues: He had commitment phobias, she had a bizarre aversion to the color red. His quirks were really more faults, he was cynical and sarcastic and forever denying the truth. And her eccentricities were really more erroneous tendencies, she was critical and elusive and apt to hide behind a veil of half-truths. They fought, threatened, and disagreed and managed to survive it all. He went to hell and back for her and it wasn't because of a simple obligation, or because they were partners once, or because of any pursuit of justice. He risked his life, over and over, for her because he loved her. And when he told her, he had actually, genuinely, sincerely meant it.

He was never expected to settle down, settling down sounded like something silt does in still water. Settle down, sink, drown. He had been in relationship after relationship, a track record marked by one night stands with girls that had blank faces in his memory. His longest association with a woman lasted nearly a year, though it had been conceived under false pretenses and ended disastrously for all parties involved . . . . He had asked, once, if she had ever lied to someone she loved and she had responded 'yes.' And while she thought that the one that was deceived had never realized the truth . . . . Well, he did find out after all.

Four years ago, he had been content to mosey through life with no connections, no ties, nothing binding him to anything. And then Ziva came and completely demolished that brilliant plan. . . . He couldn't accurately pinpoint when exactly he realized he loved her. It wasn't sudden, but it wasn't slow. The comprehension didn't miraculously dawn one day when he woke up, or when they lived after another near death experience. The admission was not triggered by the events that had transpired over summer, over seas, the fact that he had actually, effectively, after-several-attempts-succeeded, in losing her, finding her, promptly losing her again, only to relocate her a final time before strengthening his resolve to hold her forever and never let go.

However, as she once had so eloquently put, the heart wants what it wants. And unfortunately, his heart took its sweet time, letting valuable moments escape to never return again, and her heart gave up. The irony being that they seemed to fall in and out of love with each other the opposite of simultaneousness. So neither really, could be blamed. Partially because it was her fault for being Ziva, being lovely and crazy and just so, and partially because it was his fault for being Tony, being stupid and brave and just so. So.

_So_, he thought, standing from his couch, stretching, rolling his head on his shoulders. He picked up the unopened beer bottle on his coffee table, returning it to the arctic home of his fridge.

There was a knock on his door, it was soft, tentative, uncertain. But in the silent refuge of his apartment, he was able to hear the gentle rapt.

He didn't bother peering through the peephole, he never had and probably never will, -strangely similar to Gibbs, who never locked his front door. And when the door swung open he was taken slightly aback, impressed that after all the lapsed time from her last visit, she could still find her way to his apartment, like those pigeons that just _knew. _And he knew, he knew that this was of the utmost urgency because she had that intense look she got when she was trying to convey something and he wasn't listening or she couldn't sufficiently articulate. . . . But he was listening now and she was speaking now, whispering candidly and unhindered on his doorstep at three in the morning.

"I love you, Tony."


	4. Epilogue:

**A/N: Okay, well, this is exciting . . . . It took me the better half of five hours to write this thing and it isn't even a thousand words. I really don't know how it is, it was hard to write. It's like, 'Cool we're here . . . .And now where do we go?' So I really hope you like this. I may continue this, depending on the feedback. And there we go. Okay. Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not speak Spanish, French, Italian, Hebrew, or Irish (though only two languages aside from English are featured in this story) . . . .Oh, I don't own NCIS either.**

What Is Been All Along

"I love you, Tony," Ziva whispered.

And now they both stood in the dimly lit hallway, heat radiating out of Tony's open apartment door, staring at each, no unspoken conversations, just simple staring. Ziva was holding her breath, berating herself for even entertaining the thought that he had meant his own sentiment in any way besides platonic. Tony was merely trying to reign in his franticly beating heart.

Seconds past, melding into a minute, trickling beyond even that. He was still, completely and utterly unmoving, sandy brown hair sticking up in porcupine fashion, sweatshirt creased and wrinkled, ocean eyes familiarly reflected in hers. . . .She too was immobile, standing tentatively, hesitantly with her hair loose and curly, tumbling over her shoulders, framing her face. Her dark eyes were swirling with emotions that he couldn't accurately identify, but he knew they were coursing through his veins as well.

And then he suddenly was overcome with a fit of laughter, because the moment was so surreal, and because this was nothing like he'd ever imagined _them _to be , and because Ziva was glaring at him now, daring him to do _something _-he didn't know what so he settled for describing it as something- and because he was a DiNozzo, and his greatest coping mechanism was humor.

"What?" she demanded, schooling her features to resemble anything other than the crushing hurt and debilitating rejection that had lanced through her like searing knife. But he was shaking his head, suppressing his laughter with a few shaking breathes. "I'm sorry," he sighed, wiping at his eyes. "Oh god, I love you." And it was there. Again.

She didn't launch herself at him, fling herself into his arms like in some passé storyline, because, after all, their relationship was far from ordinary, far from the glamour of the silver screen. But she did come to him, gradually stepping into his embrace. And he wrapped his arms around her petite frame, kissing her lightly, chastely, on her lips. Cradling her head to his chest, he was not surprised at the ease in which she relaxed into him, how effortlessly she seemed to fit against him.

Then he pulled her away from him, placing his warm palms on either of her blushing cheeks, studying her face, memorizing the moment fate had finally permitted them to steal. He closed his eyes, straining his ears, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat and Ziva's breath as she asked, "What are you doing?"

"Shh. . . . I'm listening."

"For what?" Ziva too was now listening intently.

Tony opened one eye, regarding her with a lopsided grin. "I'm waiting for Gibbs to call. The man has this bizarre knack for interrupting important stuff. . . . I love you, Ziva. Honest," he murmured, breath fanning across her face, as he continued rubbing his thumbs over her cheekbones.

"Ti voglio bene, Tony. Onesto."

And he kissed her forehead, lips soft, delicate brushes. And he brought her back against him because he was certainly _not _tearing up, and she buried her face in his sweatshirt, that smelled uniquely and comfortingly of him, because she was certainly _not _trying to inconspicuously dab the moisture from her eyes.

So this is what she was missing: this feeling of belonging, of love, of happiness, of wholeness, entirety. And the one, singular thing she had been searching for without ever even knowing it was missing? All it took was enough lies to nearly drown out all truths, countless 'almosts,' too many bullets as bodies piled up . . . . All it took was the better half of twenty-eight years. And one brave, relentless, loyal man who had been there all along. And she was an idiot for not realizing this sooner.

"I understand now," she said, her breath at his ear, her chin resting on his shoulder. And he smiled into her hair, kissing her cheek, relieved that comprehension had finally dawned on this densely brilliant woman.

They didn't talk anymore, except for their whispered 'good nights' a few minutes later, because it was delicate, this thing they'd found together was timid and new and easily breakable. . . . So Ziva did not ask to stay. Nor did Tony offer her his couch, or his bed for that matter, because they both deserved better than that and after five years of dancing around each other, painstakingly re-erecting every bridge that they'd burnt , facing every variety of evil, surviving every threat and bullet and punch . . . . It seemed like a poor way to respect the moment that had brought them here.

Together. . . . .

Because what was missing, was never really missing at all.

* * *

**ITALIAN: Ti voglio bene, Tony. Onesto. : I love you, Tony. Honest.**


End file.
